


The Spooky Action Christmas Special

by Sab



Series: Tales of the Colorblind Private Eye [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: (Uploaded by Punk), Christmas, Colorblind Detectives, Detective Noir, Everybody in Vests, F/M, Unresolved Crack, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-09
Updated: 1999-12-09
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sab/pseuds/Sab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a sequel to "Spooky Action At A Distance," insofar as it's the further travels of Mulder-the-Colorblind-Private-Eye. It's also a holiday story, because we don't get snow in LA and the little "ching-ching-ching, ching-ching-ching, ching-ching-CHING-ching-ching" of Jingle Bells just doesn't make sense without it. (Uploaded by Punk, from you guys are just fucked.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spooky Action Christmas Special

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to dlynn, Paige Caldwell, and EPurSeMouve, without whose TERRIFIC holiday fics I never would have thought of this. I mean no offense by this parody, and I think you guys are fantastic. And thanks to Terma99 for letting me confuse her, and to Aurora Vere, because she should never go unthanked; she's awesome and knows lots of really good cats, none of which were harmed in the making of this fic.
> 
> For Exley, who has panache, even in vests.

So far as I could tell, she was coming to take me to the mall. Again. She seemed to enjoy it, the hour and nine minutes spent looking for parking and the ching ching chingle all the way and the sticky kids with pairs of bears and dogs on strings with springs...

Oh wait; that's "Toy Story 2."

But I'm pretty sure the mall part was me.

I'm Fox Mulder. Private Eye.

And this case was...

Dum dum dummmmmm!!

"Hey," I said, looking up from my desk at the sound. "Where'd that band come from?"

Dum dum dummmmm!

"What band?" said the guy in the tux at the keyboards, his hands poised over the keys.

I rolled my eyes. "You're not supposed to be here," I said.

"Oh," he said, disappearing. But not before I heard those strains of ching-ching-chingle bells rock.

Damn it all to hell. I hate Christmas Carols. 

I met two of them once, at a Bureau fundraiser four years ago. Carol Laughlin and Carol Duvall. Laughlin was the pretty one; I know that because she went home with Agent Pendrell and he never gets the pretty girls. But damn it all to hell, I hated those Christmas Carols. Especially Carol Duvall – she was the one in the Santa hat, her grey nose glowing and flashing. And she just went on and on with this story about how they wouldn't let her play some stupid games, or something – I don't remember the details – and then one foggy Christmas Eve some guy got her really drunk, I think, and they went sleigh riding, maybe? Eh, it was a long time ago. But those Carols were really grating, with their honey-voices, all Bing Crosby-like; it's enough to make a man want to roast his own chestnuts over an open fire.

Thank god that's over with. There was a ban on Christmas Carols in the Hoover building after last year's Carol Hathaway/E.R. Christmas Special debacle, so both Laughlin and Duvall were fired last Monday. And it was bizarre, because they just kept going to the bank and getting shot, and coming back, and going to the bank...oh, wait. That was a different Monday. 

And I'm getting off track, here.

I'm Fox Mulder.

And as soon as my damned partner shows up, we'll get cracking on what promises to be the toughest case of the holiday season. It really did promise; I have the memo; it's signed, and everything. "We, the undersigned, swear to be the toughest case of the holiday season." Which honestly I thought was kind of sweet, Christmas spirit and all.

Oh, I met him too, the Christmas Spirit. Boring old dude. Kept blathering about the Christmas past and the Christmas future and the Christmas presents he was gonna get. Selfish bastard. No Christmas present from me, I'll tell you that. 

I'm Fox Mulder! Cue! Cue! The stage manager waved from the wings.

Scully scuffled in on little cat feet. Then, sitting down, she plucked them free from the spikes of her high heels and handed them to me, muddy and bloodied. Poor Fluffy.

"So what's this about, Mulder?" she asked, loving me.

"We're going to the mall," I said, handing her the end of my tie to fondle. She'd seemed to like it, so I'd cut off the tips of all my ties and put them in an envelope for her to take home and play with whenever she liked. She'd smiled when I'd given it to her because of that time in Modell's hospital room when she'd taken my hand for the first time, and realized I'd palmed a little bit of tie for her, as a gift. I am not completely without sentimentality: I am, after all, Fox Mulder.

"Aren't you taking me to the mall?" I sighed, miserable at the prospect of being dragged off to that haven of unemployed Carols working part-time at the Gap.

Her brow furrowed, loving me. "I hadn't planned on it," she said.

I sighed, miserable. There was no way I was getting out of this one, not after all I'd made her go through last Christmas, with the blood and the ghosts and the kittens with mittens (don't ask). 

"Let's get it on," I sang, the way Morris Fletcher had when he inhabited my body during that week I can't remember. Skinner keeps asking us about it; Kersh did too, till we killed him. Sometimes weeks disappear. Get over it. And this Fletcher was a nice guy; I just don't understand why everyone wants to demonize him, poor bastard. I'm sure I'd really like him if I ever met him. 

I stood up, fluffing my ascot around my neck. She watched me strangely. 

"And _why_ are we going to the mall, Mulder?"

I sighed, thinking seriously about shooting someone, or birds. Or at least rocks shaped like birds. I'm that kind of guy.

"Fine!" I said. "But we're staying an _hour_ ; no more. I don't care how many nephews you have to buy Sega Dreamcast games for!"

She stood up, dressed from head to toe in Christmas colors: grey and grey. Bizarre choice of colors for a merry holiday, I'd always thought, even though people pretended they were festive by giving them cute names like "red" and "green" and "happyfunshinycolor." But on Scully they were beautiful, setting off the shimmer of her grey-green hair and rosy-grey buds of glow in her cheeks as she stared, loving me. And despite the conspiracy of greys, I knew she was innocent, innocent as the driven snow. And virginal, too. 

"I don't have to buy gifts for anyone, Mulder," she said, using my name in that obsessive way she had of using my name. I'm pretty sure it's because she's afraid she'll forget it – I found that in a book called "Mnemonic Devices For Dummies" that I'd seen on her desk, until I remembered she didn't have a desk and the book had disappeared. But she still kept using my name, which made me wonder whose desk this was, really, that I'd been sitting at all these years. Someone should do a study. Or an X-File.

Realizing that there was no swaying her from her determined path, and with my eyebrows arched in that way I apparently had of humoring her when she wanted to be serious, I followed her to the car.

She followed after me moments later.

***

At the mall, everybody was in vests. Like it was a law, or something; like there'd been a decree: "Everybody In Vests" that I hadn't heard of when the TV was on and I was cooking chili in the kitchen, humming "Mello Yello." But it was just as I'd suspected; the work of the greys, the little elves running around in grey and grey suits, hailing their alien leader, "Santa."

"There's no 'I' in 'team,' Scully," I said, pushing through the grey-vested hordes and trying to figure out how to begin my investigation.

"Okay," she said, eyeing in the toy shop all the gifts she'd never buy. Poor Scully, I thought. So alone on Christmas Eve, with nothing to do but shop for presents for imaginary children and battle the greys with me.

"Are you sure you don't mind doing this on Christmas eve?" I asked her, gently, because I loved her.

"It's December 9th, Mulder," she said. Oh, how I admired her strength.

But we were here for a reason; she had dragged me here for a reason, and it wasn't to go Christmas shopping, even though I'd thought it was and then she'd said she didn't have any Christmas shopping to do and it was, in fact, December 9th and the mall wasn't crowded at all. But that was all for show, and I was a master profiler, and I knew better. 

"Then let's crack this conspiracy!" I said, changing the subject so she wouldn't get the chance to be upset. "There's no 'I' in 'conspiracy'!"

"Yes, there is, Mulder," she sighed. Such a brave, brave soul, so unable to admit she was hollow, and lonely, and in love with me. She twirled a bit of tie around in her fingers.

The greys were massing, huddling together around a tall grey pointy object that could be nothing other than the mother ship. It was hung with grey and grey orbs – transportation pods, I imagined – and strung with ribbons of popcorn, for snacks. Its branches shook in the wind, even though we were indoors. Impressionable children giggled at the greys, understanding their unspoken language in that way only children who have been unspoiled by Sega Dreamcast can. 

"Merry Christmas," one of the greys said in his native language, so it came out sounding like "Merry Christmas!" I jotted it down in my book, and watched.

This was it. This was the moment when this so-called alien leader "Santa" would come and collect his grey-clad elf-spies and return in the mother ship to their homeworld, where they would proceed to open all of our presents and make fun of us for listening to Lou Bega and Yanni. And I wanted to be prepared. I'm Fox Mulder, and this is my song. And this is what I was put on this earth to do, here, with my partner beside me, and everybody in vests.

"Santa" arrived, dressed, as usual, in grey. I flipped out my Palm Pilot and pointed it at him, ready to beam him the names and addresses of some very reputable image consultants.

"Everybody in Vests!" I shouted, and the crowd stared at me with vacuous eyes. "Everybody! In! Vests!"

Scully tugged at my sleeve, and I wished I'd brought a little ziploc bag of sleeve-bits to give her to play with. Instead, I said, "what is it, Scully?"

"You're making a scene," she said.

It couldn't be.

It wasn't true.

They'd gotten to her, too.

These greys, and this "Santa," and their glass orbs and popcorn strings and fleet of Carols playing reindeer games had gotten to her, and she was brainwashed.

She looked just like the Christmas Spirit.

It's always been about trust, for us. And now, seeing her wearing her greyest hair, I knew she'd betrayed me. She'd been working for them all along.

Why do you think cigarette smoke is grey? And there's no 'I' in 'cigarette.' Or, even if there is, there's no 'I' in 'grey.' Or in 'gray,' which I've heard is the American spelling. And I'm, of course, American. And if the Brits lived here illegally, they'd be aliens. How do you think they'd spell 'grey' _then_ , huh?

I'm Fox Mulder, and I'm not in vests.

The crowd, Scully included, had turned their attention back to the chorus of elves, who, in a kickline that would put the Rockettes to shame, were belting out "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," to the tune of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Hanukkah." 

My heart was breaking as Scully's horrible, creaking voice rose up to join them in their alien song.

"Here we are, as in olden days, happy golden days of yore..."

I knew what I had to do.

"Faithful friends who are dear to us gather near to us once more..."

I pointed my Palm Pilot at her.

"I'm sorry, Scully," I said, because I loved her. And with the infrared messaging, I pressed 'send.'

Her own Palm Pilot beeped.

And now we're three weeks later, because she didn't have the Palm Pilot 'till I'd given it to her for Christmas.

But it beeped. And in it was the message I'd sent her.

"Happy Holidays, Scully," it read. It had my phone number at the bottom. The ball was in her court.

She called me the next day.

"Hi," she said, shyly. I could hear her grey hair over the phone.

"You called," I said.

"Yes," she said. "Mulder."

"What?"

"No," she said. "I just wanted to make sure I remembered your name."

"Oh," I said.

"Thanks for giving me your number," she said. 

"You're welcome," I said.

"I've wanted to call you for a long time," she said.

"Oh really?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "I just didn't have your number. But now I can tell you. I love you."

And all of a sudden all the Christmas Carols were for us, and from their posts at the Gap they sang out for the fact that we'd defeated the greys, we'd driven them out, and the mall was no longer haunted by the ghost of the Christmas Spirit, and Morris Fletcher came up to us and gave us his blessing and his business card.

"Call me," he said. "I'm in vests."

There's no 'I' in vests.


End file.
